Our last week in Panama City was a whirlwind blur of busses, subways, and hardware stores, grocery stores, and home-goods stores.
A friend had recommended a dentist, so we went for routine teeth cleanings. We walked many heavy miles, bags loaded with provisions. I’m sure I’m now a half-inch shorter. We don’t know when the port of call will be a big, modern city, so we did our best to think ahead and buy items we’ll need for future boat projects. That’s a never-ending list.
Instead of taking the dinghy to shore from anchor, we splurged on a slip at a marina. This would also facilitate taking on the fenders, lines, and line-handlers ahead of our transit, as well as saving energy needed for running around the city.
Almost 2 months ago, I did all of the paperwork with the Panama Canal authorities, submitted payment, and was put on the schedule for Friday April 5. They said to call on the evening of Thursday April 4th to schedule a specific time to meet the canal advisor, who transits with us and makes the necessary communications with the canal workers.
The three Panamanian line handlers I’d hired showed up Thursday afternoon, with all the fenders and securing lines. They’d spend the night with us, since we’d need to leave the dock at 3:30am.
I called Thursday evening. The scheduler said we were on the schedule, but there was problem - the computer was showing our transit was cancelled. He could not see why. I said it must be a mistake, because I’d already been approved, made the payment, and had a confirmed date - and that we’d been patiently waiting 7 weeks.
At the limit of my conversational Spanish, the oldest and most-experienced of the line handlers, Tito, jumped on the phone, and spoke at a much faster pace than I could completely follow, polite but insistent that the mistake was not mine, but theirs, and it was their responsibility to sort it out. He’d taken an hour-long taxi from Colón, a town on the other side of the canal, to make our transit. He was polite, but explained that my crew of three was already aboard, with all the lines and fenders, ready to go.
After hours of phone calls, and several emails, we made progress. I’d sent the scheduler copies of the wire-transfer receipt, the routing info the payment office had given me, and the confirmation number they’d been paid. He said that the payment office doesn’t open until 7am, but finally caved, and set us up to meet the advisor at 4am the following morning. Our cockpit was full of the sounds of cheers and beers cracked open. “Pero que chingadera!” I said, cracking everyone up. What a fuck-up!
The line-handlers slept in the cockpit with air from a big fan I set up. We all began stirring at 2:45am. Shawn passed around hot coffee, and we started Miette’s engine at 3:25am, and until the lines 5 minutes later.
We held station next to a buoy in front of the canal traffic control facility, and were told that our advisor would be dropped off at 4:30am.
By this point, we’d gotten to know the Panamanians. Shawn went by “Maria”, which is much easier for Spanish-speakers to say, since “sh” doesn’t exist in Spanish, and all of our conversations were in Spanish. If any of them spoke English, I never heard it - so anything they said quoted here is my translation to English.
They’d asked how I spoke Spanish, and I explained that I’m a Mexican-American. They were at a loss in describing my accent, and I suggested “International"?”, which I’ve been told. They snapped fingers and pointed, “yes, that’s it exactly. You have an international accent!”
Tito, who’d been my point of contact, was from Colón, maybe mid 60s, skinny and more gums than teeth. He was the jokester, and kept our mood up with his corny wisecracks and good-natured ribbing. Alex was the warm, big-hearted guy, probably in his early 40s, from Panama City. Both Alex and Tito had lost count of their canal transits, but this was only the second one for Alberto, a handsome mixed-race guy in his early 20s, who had family in both Colón and Panama City.
Shawn had stressed for weeks about what to feed the crew. The canal requires that we feed the advisor hot meals with protein for breakfast and lunch and provide drinks. Our friend Meredith from SV Jackdaw (link to her blog) had shared a recipe for egg burritos that she’d said had been a hit during her transit.
While we waited for the advisor, Shawn warmed up the pre-made burritos. As they unwrapped them, they wondered aloud what kind of food it was.
Tito suggested, “I think this is called a burrito.”
“Yes, those are burritos,” I explained.
“Oh! You must have learned to make this in Mexico!”
I laughed, and said, “No, actually Americans eat burritos. Americans think it’s Mexican food, but you won’t see burritos in restaurants in Mexico unless they cater to tourists.”
They happily wolfed down the burritos, much to Shawn’s relief.
At 4:30am sharp, a pilot boat rendezvoused with us, and the canal advisor stepped from that boat to Miette, holding a mast stay, stepping on the top of a stanchion not intended to support a man’s weight. Ugh. It held.
Guillermo, a tall black man in his 50s, was friendly, and throughout the day, would only speak in English to me, despite that every other conversation aboard was completely in Spanish.
We motored along the channel, past the Port of Balboa, the huge shipping terminal for Panama City, and towards the Miraflores locks, arriving just as the sun rose.
A container ship entered the lock first, held fast by guy wires spooled from small locomotives that travel rails alongside the canal. It took the canal workers about 20 minutes to get the ship into the lock, after which we followed in behind them.
Massive metal doors slowly closed behind us, our last view of the Pacific ocean a shrinking vertical slit, disappearing with a deep, resounding thud of steel upon steel.
Canal workers on both sides of us threw monkey-fists at us, a type of knotted ball at the end of small ropes. To these, our line handlers attached the thick nylon ropes we had on board for this occasion. The workers pulled back their lines and the attached nylon ropes, then secured the ends to cleats up on the canal wall.
Once we were secured, water started flowing in beneath us, and we steadily rose upward while the line handlers took up the slack.
The lock doors ahead of the ship were opened once the water was level. The ship then moved forward, the wash from their propellers disturbing the water all around us.
When the advisor deemed the turbulence had subsided enough, he blew a whistle, signaling the canal workers to drop our lines back to us, so that we could continue forward.
There are 3 locks going up, to the level of Lake Gatún, a stretch of about 25 miles, and then 3 locks going down, back to sea level.
Aside from the container ship in front of us, we were alone and “center chamber” position for the first 2 locks. On the 3rd lock, we followed a tugboat and tied up next to them.
We cleared the last lock going up around 9:30am. He said that I had to go at maximum speed, because we had to get to the first of the “down” locks by 1pm.
I’d changed the oil, I’d flushed the heat exchanger with barnacle-buster, I’d replaced the coolant - and we had a clean hull and propeller, so Miette was in the best possible condition to go full ahead.
I brought the RPMs up to what is normally our maximum, around 2,200 RPM.
“What is your GPS speed, Captain?” asked the advisor.
It was jumping between 5 and 5.5 knots (nautical miles per hour), with an occasional blip up to 6 knots.
“6 knots,” I replied, stretching the truth.
“That’s not good enough, we need at least 6.5 knots to make it on time.”
I edged the engine up to 2,700 RPM, and barely a minute passed before he asked for an update on our speed. I’d seen 6.5 knots for an instant, but it was really staying at around 6 knots. The canal runs North/South, and the winds come from the North. We had winds of 10-15 knots against us, slowing us down.
“I just saw 6.5 knots,” I said, though it had only momentarily been true. Miette’s engine temperature were far higher than I’d ever seen them, and there was no way I was going to push her harder.
“OK, good.”
Our line-handlers stowed the fenders and lines and kicked back to relax. The canal advisor monitored a radio, but mostly kept to himself, watching TikTok.
Alex said, “it’s up to you to get us there on time! I know you can do it!”
I said, loud enough for the advisor to hear “it’s up to Miette. We have the wind against us, a short waterline, and a small 27 horsepower engine that is 34 years old running at a temperature I’ve never seen before. She’s doing the best she can at the moment, but I’m not going to destroy her engine to make a deadline. The Panama Canal requirements say a minimum of 5 knots, and we’re above that.”
Satisfied with that, our crew relaxed. The risk of not meeting our deadline meant the possibility of having to overnight on the lake.
If it was just me and Shawn, we would have actually preferred that, going at a slower pace and taking it easy on Miette. But, we had 4 men to feed and bunk aboard, and they all preferred to spend the night in their own beds, not aboard a small, 32-foot sailboat. It rained for an hour during the transit, during which Alex, Tito, and the advisor went down below, seeing for themselves how cramped a space it is for more than 2 people.
During the morning, I received an email from the Canal authorities, requesting payment for our transit. I replied with the email I’d sent the scheduler, with the confirmation #, the routing info they’d provided, showing that the transit was paid. They have yet to reply, so perhaps they’re sorting things out. For an operation of worldwide importance, a slip-up like this seemed uncharacteristic.
Several times, while the advisor was deep into his TikToks, I tried taking the “racing line” through curves in the channel, cutting to the inside of corners. He’d glance up to look at the channel markers, look at me, and say, “there is a ship coming, you need to keep to starboard, Captain.”
Sure enough, there’d be another ship coming around the corner.
Tito began to doubt we’d make it on time, but Alex stayed positive, saying “the captain is trying his best, doing an excellent job with our trajectory.”
I kept trying to cut corners, and after having told me to keep right several times, the advisor asked, “do you have AIS?”
“Yes”, I replied. AIS is a system where ships can report their position and speed to nearby receivers. Miette’s navigation computer can show AIS targets and their trajectories, and will sound an alarm if we’re on a projected collision course.
“So you can see ships coming?”
“Yes, both in front and behind us.”
“OK, when there is a ship coming, you keep to starboard, ok?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll keep to starboard if a ship is coming.”
I went back to the racing line, shaving 20-30 minutes off our time. I’d punched in our course on Miette’s navigation computer (called a “chart plotter” by sailors), which can calculate the estimated time of arrival (ETA) at our destination. It held steady at predicting 1:50pm, which I kept to myself.
A parade of large ships went by us in both directions all day, dwarfing Miette. This area through which the canal passes is astoundingly beautiful, a lush green jungle valley. I did my best to try to enjoy it, but the pressure was on, and my eyes never strayed far from our course and the engine temperature gauge.
Shawn served us pasta with a “meat” sauce. We’re vegetarians, so the “meat” was actually seasoned soy protein. They were none the wiser, and all asked for seconds. We’d bought all manner of sodas and junk food, as Panamanians are not known for being healthy eaters, and it was a hit.
The engine raced furiously and the clock ticked on. At 12:30pm, we were still a long way from the locks, and Miette’s navigation computer was still forecasting an ETA of 1:50pm.
The line-handlers began asking the advisor about our fate for the night. He’d last reported our position by radio at noon.
“Well, gentlemen. We are to radio when we reach buoy 25, and they will decide what to do with us.” Just then, we passed buoy 37.
1pm came and went, and there was little chatter among the crew, only the sound of Miette’s diesel engine, hot and furious, charging into the unrelenting headwinds.
I continued cutting corners when possible, and saw buoy 25 up ahead around 1:20pm.
“There’s buoy 25!” I exclaimed.
The advisor stoically slowly set his phone down, pocketed his reading glasses, put on his other glasses, and leaned forward to confirm this for himself. And did nothing. A long minute of relative silence passed as we got closer to the buoy, all eyes on the advisor.
When we were actually abeam of the buoy, he picked up his radio. If it weren’t for the engine noise, you could have heard a pin drop.
“Transit control, this is north-bound 15 Echo Charlie, reporting buoy 25.”
A long pause during which none of us aboard uttered a peep.
Finally the advisor’s radio came alive, “15 Echo Charlie, transit control.”
“15 Echo Charlie here, go ahead.” We all stared at the radio in the advisor’s hands, awaiting our fate.
“15 Echo Charlie, you will lock with 19 Zulu Alpha".
“Copy that, 15 Echo Charlie out,” replied the advisor.
Before he’d even set the radio down, we all erupted in cheers, high-fives, and fist-bumps. Even the advisor grinned.
Tito began cracking jokes, then sniffing the air. “I can smell it! Can you smell it?” he asked.
I have a keen sense of smell, but could not smell anything out of the ordinary. “What do you smell?” I asked.
“I can smell the town of Colón, where I live! Alex, do you smell it? It’s a very particular smell!”
Alex said he didn’t.
Tito continued putting on a show of deeply inhaling, smelling the air. “Ah! There it is! The smell of shit! That’s Colón! It smells like shit!” and laughed. Alex and Alberto just smirked and shook their heads. The advisor ignored all the joking around, now watching news about the NBA.
As Miette predicted, we arrived at the Gatún locks, the first set of locks to begin lowering us to sea level. There was a cruise ship already going through, but no sign of another ship or boat heading towards us.
The advisor got on the radio for instructions. We were told to tie up alongside the pier and wait, that 19 Zulu Alpha was a disabled tuna hunting boat being towed in behind us. We’d seen the tuna boat tied up on a mooring, but saw no activity around her.
We tied up and I shut the engine down. Tito asked for a bucket, then used it to rinse himself off on the bow while the Alex teased him.
Sheltered from the winds by the pier, we were in stifling heat. We waited. Then we waited some more. All of that rushing, just to get here and wait.
An hour and a half passed before the tuna boat and tug showed up, easing their way in side-by-side.
The advisors radio came to life. “15 Echo Charlie, proceed into the lock for a starboard sidewall”, meaning we would tie to the side of the lock. He then addressed me, “Normally, I’ll never want a sailboat tied to the sidewall unless we’re are going down-lock. When we go up-lock, it is too dangerous, but going down is fine, because the water is calm and all we have to do is let our lines out as we go down.”
I started the engines and position us in the lock as far forward as we can go. Canal workers caught our lines and tied them to the wall as the tuna boat and it’s tow-boat were held fast by lines from the the locomotives.
We watched as the lock gates closed behind the tuna boat, and immediately our lines began to strain.
“Let slack in your lines!” yelled the advisor. The water was already dropping without warning, and our motion downward was imperceptible.
For a moment, Alberto - the line-handler in training, was having trouble untying the line from the stern cleat since it now had gone taught, but thankfully got it freed before a massive problem occurred. Alex and Alberto then began steadily letting out the lines and down we went.
Our passage through the three successive down-locks was fast. We’d finally reached the bottom of the last and final lock, looking up at the massive steel doors in front of us.
“You can relax now, Captain. We’ve done it.” The gates opened to the Atlantic Ocean before us to more cheers, hand-shakes, grins and back-slaps.
At the start of the day, it seemed like a normal work-day for our crew, even though the canal transit was a momentous occasion for us, but I was delighted that they shared in our stress, our success, and finally, completing our transit.
Left to right: Alex, me, Shawn, Tito, and our advisor, Guillermo - at the end of a very long day.
Enjoy the footage we shot during our canal transit!